I wake shivering. The alarm hasn’t gone off, so I roll over. It finally rings, then I reset the snooze. Twice. I finally get up, after 730, when I’d wanted to start before sunrise. Not happening. I pack up my gear, including my new tent, drenched with dew. That’s always fun with fingers already stiff from the cold.

I’m looking forward to the ride today with more than a slight trepidation. A long haul, all the way into Big Sur, all the major hills. I’m feeling road worn and weary, reluctant to be ending my tour, yet also not wanting to continue. I look ahead at the crises that await me back in Oregon. It’s time to go home.

I bid my new bicycle companions farewell and am ready to head out. Then I notice the back tire. Flat! I grumble, drop off the panniers, pull off the wheel. Strip the tire, replace the tube, check for the source of the leak. A tiny wire, still poking through the outer wall of the now worn Marathon Plus. Certainly lived up to their name, these tires. Nearing 1500 miles on this tour, first flat.

Tire repaired, rolling down the highway, thus I begin to count my blessings once more. First flat of the tour. I’d heard stories about major breakdowns, broken spokes on Leggett Hill for instance, and this was my only mechanical problem thus far. My odometer clicks past 29,000. The miles ridden since I resumed touring in 2010. Quite a feat. But I’m not feeling it.

My 2018 Gratitude Tour, what I named this tour when I first set out. I look back and see how my mood has often been anything but. Yet, gratitude is not a mood. It is a decision. I recall several tours back, rolling into San Simeon State Park all the way from Esalen, meeting another cyclist sitting at a table with a dazed look on his face.

“I just had the most amazing ride of my life,” he said dreamily. He was holding an SLR camera, talking about the day, the hills, the vistas, the elephant seals, the winds. I recognized this feeling. Drenched in all the delicious post ride endorphins, overwhelmed by the completion of an adventure and hard riding. The most amazing ride of his life.

And here I am, heading back over the same route, grumbling and anxious, wondering how I’ll make it. Suddenly it dawns on me, this will be my most amazing ride. Of my life. I don’t know what is coming down the road, literally or metaphorically. Today, now, this long highway ahead, this is it. My focus sharpens, I see my life now, in crystal clarity, all the lessons of the past struggles, the depth counseling, the poetry and writers block, the wandering and wondering and obsessing, all come to that marvelous inner fruition that David Whyte keeps referring to.

Today will be the most amazing ride of my life. My bicycle seems to move more easily, straight away. Pedal strokes reach their rhythmic pace. Miles are rolling, I’m merging the new with the nostalgia, there, here and now. I pass easily over the plains before the Big Sur mountains, eager to hit the first climb. Winds are mild, such a blessing heading North! I whiz past the elephant seal viewpoint, onward.

There, first sight of the mountainous coast. Big Sur! Just as ominous and inspiring as I remember it, from taking this reverse route a few times before. I’m ready to hit the first climb, gearing down, pedals strong. Up I climb toward Ragged Point, winding in and out of cove and headland. This climb seems so simple, just keep pedaling. Breathing, Trusting. Trusting my bicycle, my body, the motorists who pass with ample room, this life, this future.

I stop for coffee at Ragged Point, the warmth of the sun feels amazing. Then onward, climbing the first hill at Salmon Creek. It’s tall, but not so bad. Descent comes faster than I’d expected, I’m careening into the deep cove at the creek, then the turn and climbing the second hill. Halfway up, I’m stopped by dazzling green on the side of the cliff. Green rock. I want some. I lift a beautiful rock, then another. This would make a nice altar piece. I want to take them. All of them. How ridiculous I am now, shoving rocks into my panniers. I must be the only cyclist out here adding rocks for ballast. I’m laughing loudly at the absurd passion of my fancy with stones.

I ride on, marveling at the different kinds of stone and sedimentary formations. Riding north, I’m on the cliff side, close to the cuts. So many colors! Greens, rusty reds, black, grey. Around a bend, deep red! I stop, see a hillside which seems to be made of a dark red quartz, with strands of white running through it. A couple more rocks for the bags, smallish. Ha! Just a few more rides anyway, I think. What’s a little more weight?

I descend this hill, then see above in the distance the repaired highway at Mud Creek. A delight to cycle over this engineering feat again. I’m soon climbing, up over the new tarmac, watching road crews and heaving machinery busy in what will always be a perpetual work zone. A million tons of earth. How many million tons of road bed, rip rap, asphalt have been laid upon this highway, but a thin ribbon of roadway carved into the mountainous coastal cliffs of Big Sur. And why? All for the 400 some residents of the small town at the center? Or for the tourists, thousands who visit? Or for me, this lonely cyclist, among so many other cyclists?

Gratitude, deep in my bones now, for all the work and inspiration and dedication to make this experience possible. For all the road work, for the travelers, for the kind residents, for my cycling kin. I’m smiling, with tears welling. On I ride. Another hill, then descending into Pacific Valley, flying past Plaskett Creek, Kirk Creek, on climbing through the avalanche shelter up to Lucia. I pass Esalen, no time for the night soak this year.

I’m ticking off the distance now with the mileposts, calculating, will I make it there by sundown? The first 40 miles have taken 6 hours, since my departure at 830am. Yes, just after sundown. On over the four bridges, then the the climb to Julia Pfeiffer Burns and McWay falls. I stop for a break, eating a random roadside lunch: peanut butter banana wrap, jerky, sauerkraut. So delicious! The sun is beginning to set over the turquoise waters below. I must ride on, climbing now past the spot the huge bolder fell, blocking to road during that crazy January ride I took in 2017.

Climbing, rolling, descending, climbing again. I stop at my favorite vista to soak in the last Big Sur sunset of the trip. The sun eases down below the vast waters of the Pacific. The clouds in the sky light up in oranges, reds, even purple. The surf breaks softly against the rocks, hundreds of feet below. Ah, this moment, how precious and beautiful, may I always remember.

Then, back on for the final miles. And climbs. My legs are feeling it, my back aching a bit, my hands numb, I shake them out, straighten my spine, keep pedaling. Lowest gear, wishing for a lower one. Coast Gallery, descend, climb, descend. How many more! There, the last descent, past Henry Miller Library, closed at this hour. Jazz and boomer cover band playing at Nepenthe as I crawl past. Just a few more miles of climbing and the final descent.

I stop to turn on the phone, see messages cascading in across the screen. A car pauses, are you ok? Yes, I say, just a breather before the final climb. A call with Robert, checking in on a payroll detail. I’m home soon, I assure him. We’ll get thinks really rolling at the restaurant now, we agree. Then, back to the climb, past Ventana, and the crest.

I’m riding with my full lighting now, 900 lumen headlamp blazing a clear path, I begin the rapid descent. I pass Big Sur Bakery, not stopping, then the store and post office, the new bridge over Pfeiffer Canyon, then Big Sur Station. The bridge over the Big Sur River. Then, I roll into the campground, It’s dark, but I see other cyclists.

I set up camp, shower, revel in this day, the challenges and achievements of the ride washing over me. The struggles, the vistas, the obsessing, the release from obsessing. My body, my breath, my mind, my heart, beating and yearning and wailing and laughing. Cycling all day over this most spectacular landscape, filled with gratitude, held in one hand, with grief in the other, just as Lara counseled me, over and over. This was indeed the most amazing ride of my life.

]]>https://vintagebicycleodyssey.com/2018/10/31/having-the-most-amazing-ride-of-my-life/feed/015410484210247fireworksvenueAnd then the sky does thishttps://vintagebicycleodyssey.com/2018/10/30/and-then-the-sky-does-this/
https://vintagebicycleodyssey.com/2018/10/30/and-then-the-sky-does-this/#respondTue, 30 Oct 2018 22:48:55 +0000http://vintagebicycleodyssey.com/?p=175385190Day 36, San Luis Obispo to San Simeon State Park, 39 miles

I take my time rising. I hear others getting up, so now I think I’d best get on my way. Need to do some shopping so I won’t be stuck in Big Sur with no food. I chat with Natalie, raccoons were up and tearing through her panniers. I heard them growling at each other, a scary sound when you first hear it. Like cats fighting, only deeper.

Farewell to these friends as they roll out, perhaps we’ll never see each other again. Or who knows? I linger at the beach a bit longer. I don’t want to leave Southern California so soon. But also, don’t feel comfortable here. The people seem to have a strange denial. Living in the desert, with so many borrowed resources, especially the water.

I roll the palm tree lined road into town. Stop at the discount store, used to be a Safeway. I guess Albertsons won the grocery turf war here. I mail my old tent home, maybe I can buy poles for it from Eureka. Still has many years left. Then off to the train. I board Surfliner, see two other touring bikes already there. I chat with one cyclist, who’s also riding north to SLO to cycle back south to LA.

The three hour ride goes too fast. I’m not ready to ride again. So I stop over at Kreuzberg again. My am I delaying the inevitable, the ride over the hill, then north on California 1. Hours now to reach the campground at San Simeon, sure to arrive after dark. I’m begrudging the ride ahead. Thinking I should just board the Coast Starlight, head home. End this tour, now.

But I don’t. I ride on. Winds are from the north, but not too strong. I retrace my steps, riding back past Morro Bay, then around through Cayucos. The highway then climbs through Harmony, population 18. Still just 18? Strange little town. I’m struggling, as the sun is setting. Why am I doing this, riding 1500 miles, into nowhere, alone with my thoughts, my anxieties, my anger. Why?

The sun dips behind the hillside, I feel a cool breeze now. I stop and don my jacket. Almost suddenly, the sky is on fire with sunset colors. I’m taken aback, my complaints are silenced as I discover again why I am here. To experience this beauty. To set aside all my cares and complaints and worries and injustices. To drink in this sky, this color, this life.

I finish the final miles with my headlamp, past Cambria, then along to San Simeon. I roll into the very dark campground, greet other cyclists, then set up my tent. I’ve feeling a sudden change in temperatures. How cold here, when just last night I was in sunny Southern California. I bundle up and try to sleep. I remember the fire in the sky, and it warms my heart. I know why I’m here.

The texts come in at 6am. Medical crisis back home. I ponder my decision, ride on to Mexico? Or turn, back home. I feel the call to return, ini a flash change my plans. I look us train schedules, I’ll take the Amtrak to SLO, ride back over Big Sur and then into San Francisco, where I’ll get the Coast Starlight from Oakland back to Oregon.

I’m relieved a bit, conflicted too. At the end of a tour I’ve often felt this, wanting to return, yet compelled to keep riding. That what I am returning to will pale by comparison to this adventure. That the stresses of my Oregon life will engulf me once again. I resolve to make my reentry different this year. To embrace my emotions, my commitments, as well as retain my need for adventure and discipline.

Discipline. Discipline is remembering what you want. I recall Alison Luterman repeating this quote at one of the Sun Esalen retreats. How quickly in my normal life do I tend to forget, to disappear into my stresses. Which I’ve brought with me along on this tour. A struggle it’s been, many of the days, many of the rides. And now, nearing the end, I wonder at how I might have done it differently.

No matter, I’ll accept my place now. Resignation, acceptance, time to turn. Time to head home. I load my bike, ride out from the hostel onto the Santa Monica streets, turn down to the waterfront avenue. Ocean Avenue. Nice name. I follow the route south, through Venice, follow Venice Boulevard all the way into downtown Los Angeles, some 15 miles. Boring riding, so my ear buds are playing David Whyte poetry. This time his writings on death, the long disappearance we all must come to terms with. Appropriate.

I reach the core downtown, notice all the new constructions. Condos going up, new blacktop, bike lanes, iPhone ads everywhere. No homeless in sight here in this chic glitzy “new LA”. I stop in the central market, look down at my panniers and notice my tent poles missing. Somewhere along the bumpy stretch of Venice Boulevard. What now, how will I camp for the next several nights?

Quick check, change plans again. I board the train at Union Station, now planning to get off at Santa Barbara, buy a new tent at REI, then get grab the next train back to camp the night at Carpinteria. Just an hour between these stops, but the REI is just a two blocks from the station. It works, new tent, I’m back on the Amtrak for 15 minutes, then off and over to the state park in Carpinteria.

There as I roll into the darkened camp, I hear a voice, Is that Ocean? It’s Natalie, who I camped with once before at Gualala Point way up at the edge of Mendocino County. She’s been following the Mission Trail, visiting all the Spanish missions. We chat about the road, I meet three other cyclists. Even in such a brief meeting, I feel the community and connection that touring cyclists share.

I’m off to sleep, will catch the Amtrak tomorrow to SLO. The surf lulls as it breaks, endlessly on the beach.

]]>https://vintagebicycleodyssey.com/2018/10/29/the-turning/feed/015409820296330fireworksvenueOn to the City of Angelshttps://vintagebicycleodyssey.com/2018/10/27/on-to-the-city-of-angels/
https://vintagebicycleodyssey.com/2018/10/27/on-to-the-city-of-angels/#respondSat, 27 Oct 2018 22:34:22 +0000http://vintagebicycleodyssey.com/?p=175385128Day 33, Full Circle Farm to Santa Monica Hostel International, 75 miles

Two invisible helpers on today’s ride: gravity and wind. Gravity aids my first twenty miles I’m basically descending, coasting down hill. Makes the distance disappear between Ojai and Ventura disappear almost as quickly as the good spirits from the fire. How to keep the inspiration, the passion, these are my meditations today. Good things to ponder, as I move back from permaculture into the ecological impossibility that is Southern California. Twenty million people living a wildly consumptive life in a concrete landscape, all situated on millions acres of desert.

Tailwinds blow me along the PCH from Ventura on in past the Santa Monica Mountain range, in through Malibu, closer and closer to Los Angeles. The traffic grows busier and more aggressive. Ocean views are blocked by gated mansions and estates, beach houses perched on pylons destined to be reclaimed by the waves. The ride is seventy five miles, yet I arrive well before sunrise in Santa Monica, head to the hostel. I’m going to meet Alden and Claire, who arrived in LA a few days ago.

They drive up to pick me up, and strange, it feels like we’ve know each other for a long time. Much longer than the few days which actually comprise our relationship. Another way bicycle travel is like a time machine: bonds are easier, deeper, sharing the adventure, challenge, and inspiration of pedal powered travel. We go for margaritas and guacamole at a local Santa Monica eatery. Prices here are as inflated as ever. We talk of further destinations, I’m planning to ride into Baja to visit Lissette and Juan in Ensenada, Alden plans to ride up to Joshua Tree.

We part and I return to the hostel to rest. Sleep comes easy, the first bed I’ve been in for a month. In the morning, I meet up for breatfast with my friend Diana for Corvallis. Serendipity and a baby shower brought her to LA at the same time as my tour. Many laughs as we try out the Lyft scooters, immediately understanding the appeal of these now ubiquitous and obnoxious rentals. The cost for a short trip adds up. I wonder at the long term viability, as scooter riders now crowd the sidewalks they are not supposed to occupy.

I decide on another night at the hostel, doing laundry and relaxing deeply. My tour has taken a toll, I’m feeling road worn and homesick. Contact with my beloved has been sparse, news from the restaurant continually strained. Maybe it’s time to go home. I’m reluctantly considering riding further south. It seems the end of a tour usually comes to this, a hesitation about continuing, a reluctance to return.

One could say I met Ray Cirino through the internet. Facebook in particular. We began following each other’s cob oven and rocket stove postings soon after I joined the social media platform in 2008. A couple years later, I made my first of what would become annual bicycle tour down the Pacific Coast. Ray was in the middle working on Sparky, the wood fired dragon pizza oven, with a cob oven core and artisan metal working on the exterior. The LA Weekly featured Ray in an article entitled “LA’s Permaculture Mad Scientist”. Later we went to see the space shuttle at the LA science center, which I wrote about in my blog, titled Rocket man. Rocket stoves. Recycled rocket parts from military junkyards. Ray is a rocket of permaculture passion and determination.

Ray has invited me up to Ojai, his current digs, for a few years now. I’ve always declined, staying on the coast. This tour, I decide to take him up. Checking elevations, the climb doesn’t seem that bad, especially after what I’ve already completed. A lovely flat morning ride, sun rise over the Santa Barbara coastline, cruising along to Ventura, first on that fancy new bike path, then Route 1, which is now a side road hugging the busy 101, Ventura Freeway.

I reach Ventura, stop for coffee and chat with a motorcyclist who is also adventuring the states. Then I head east, into the desert of California. I say desert, because a short distance from the coast, temperatures begin to climb. I follow the Ojai Valley Trail, which climbs along what must be a river, though no water is to be seen. A couple hours, then I reach Ojai, a quaint town with the Spanish architecture I love so much. I pause at a natural food store, then head out. Temperature is above 90°F. I drink a lot of my water, ride slowly. The road climbs switchbacks, then I see the evidence of last year’s Thomas Fire.

I miss the turnoff, double back, then roll down what was the old highway to FCF, Full Circle Farm. I roll right on in, seeing scattered buildings of various hippy styles, a group of young men taking down burnt trees, them I find Ray, working in his shop on another invention. Like old times, greetings move quickly into a tour of all the projects Ray is currently juggling. Adding metal shutters on the earth dome that survived the fire, but post the wooden framing on the windows. Scale models of a cob playhouse for children, and a fire proof cob cottage with metal window and door shutters. A wooden model of a fire tornado biochar generator he hopes Burning Man will adopt. A bio char outhouse, and biochar compost pile with rich dark soil.

His most current creations are an owl house and a rat catching box, which he will then feed to raptors at a restoration preserve. It’s hard to follow ray, so many things to finish, but the passion he carries is apparent. We walk through Full Circle Farm, he shows me where animals were kept until the fire, gardening projects needing more attention. And the most important feature: a hot shower. I duck out and get cleaned up from the road. Ray sends off another resident for pizza making supplies. He fires up his metal wood heated oven.

Folks are gathering now, a fire pit is also blazing, pizzas cooking in Ray’s oven. The pizza is delicious, a gluten free dough that rises as well as any wheat crust. The conversation also feeds me, as we talk late around the fire pit. There are several other permaculture apprentices, I hear their excitement. Is this possible, saving the earth from what seems inevitable environmental collapse? These young people, men and women, seem to have no doubts. I remember this confidence, this spirit, this zeal for making a difference, for changing the way things are. For saving the world. I am breathing in their enthusiasm again, a rarified air of commitment, inspiration and optimism.

I’ve come full circle again, here at Full Circle Farm. Remembering why I got involved in healing work so many years ago, why I built the cob Kiva at Ahimsa Sanctuary, why we built an organic vegetarian restaurant with a wood fired earthen oven. Art and function, fantasy and devotion, passion and the hardest work I’ve ever experienced. Somehow, I wandered from the path, lost my focus, my dream, my vision. Here, I’m reminded again. Here, I see it isn’t that far off. Here, right in my memory, now in my sight again, and on the far horizon. Thank you Ray and all these wonderful dreamers and builders.

Ah, this is a fun day. Cycling along the Santa Barbara coastline. Mercifully flat, with a usual tailwind. I’m glad to be rolling, even though leaving Refugio is bittersweet. Maybe stay there a couple nights next time. The 101 has light traffic as I set out, views of crystal blue ocean and skies. I can even ignore the oil rigs offshore if I set my mind to it.

I exit the 101 and follow Hollister Avenue for miles, through Goleta, past the airport, eventually reaching Santa Barbara. I stop at Kinko’s to print my business statement, it’s far time to balance the checking account! Then on along State Street, through downtown and lunch at Lilly’s. Three delicious street tacos, just $1.90 each. Like tacos should cost. I remember how excited we were to find this spot. And my disappointment last tour, to show on Tuesday. the one day they are closed. I stop around to corner at Santa Barbara Roasting to get the blog updated again, finally. Writer’s block be damned.

Then on along the Santa Barbara marina, past the arboretum, follow the Cross Coast bike route, down through Summerland, past Santa Claus Lane, on to Carpinteria. Again, just before sunset. I roll into camp, meet other cyclists, a few I haven’t seen yet, but hey, there’s Aaron, who I met way back at Cape Lookout, second night of my tour! He’s thinking of riding to Cabo, but reluctant to enter Mexico. Three Brits are enjoying a very slow cooked potato and burnt corn dinner. I had a burger at the Spot, wished I had instead joined them at the table.

But I’m still a little shy, a bit antisocial, so I retire to my tent. I listen to their laughter, wishing I could rejoin them, overcome this awkward feeling. Yet, acceptance of where I am, I’m not judging this mood. i know it will pass. Let the sleep overcome me, the surf sooth me, to full moon work her magic again.

It’s already 9am, I’m just leaving the Rock n’ Roll Diner in Oceano. There’s such a long boring ride ahead. Hard to get going, thinking this way. But I especially don’t relish this particular ride of the whole coast. In fact, I’ve cheated around it the last couple tours. Caught the Amtrak from SLO to Santa Barbara. Not today.

I’m leaving town, riding from Oceano along the dusty, mud pocked highway, bordered with agriculture. Climb the steep hill to Arroyo Grande, then descend past the Phillip 66 refinery which gives the air here the odor of burning tires. Along through Guadalupe, a Mexican town in California, every shop a taqueria or Mexican store, most with bars and gates to lock up at night. All these Mexican workers, who will harvest America’s dinner, if the Trumpeters have their way. Who will bear the exposure to toxic chemicals used on the fields. The politics of the day is so grim.

I debate two routes ahead, follow Route 1 through Vandenberg and Lompoc, or stay on 135 and follow 101 down through Beulton. I decide the latter, having ridden both in the past. I forget how bad 135 is, for several miles connecting to 101 at Los Alamos. Maybe taking 101 the whole way wouldn’t be that bad. Once I’m on the freeway, I don my headphones and listen to music and David Whyte’s poetry.

The miles are passing quickly, as I’m enjoying a strong tailwind. But it is such a long ride, and nearly 80 degrees. Still summer in Southern California. I think of the chilly Fall descending on my home town. I’m just beginning to look forward to it again. But not ready to give up this extended heat. Not yet. I descend into Beulton and stop at Andersen’s Split Pea, a cultural anachronism, yet also a family tradition from the earliest days. Seems like stepping out of time when I enter.

I’m glad to leave this strange town, head back onto the freeway. A long climb through a narrow pass, then a rapid descent to the coast again. I climb past Gaviota and fly along 101 the last few miles to camp. I reach Refugio Beach just as the sun is setting, and feel the euphoria of the marathon ride setting in. Phone calls with friends and my beloved are reassuring, as is the lull of the surf, just across the road from the hiker biker site. This is one of the most beautiful camps along the coast. I’ll sleep well tonight.

It’s going to be a short day riding. I’m heading just over the hill from San Luis Obispo, to an uninspiring campground run by SLO County, just a long block from Pismo Beach. I usually spend a good part of the day in town at Kreuzberg’s. Will be a good chance to get caught up on the blog, now several days behind in my postings.

I’m packing up my gear, getting ready to ride. I look at my bicycle, the flags and bells, thinking maybe I should take them off. I don’t want to be such a spectacle, I hear in my head. A spectacle. As if touring thousands of miles by pedal power isn’t already a spectacle. No, I’m thinking the flags and bells just aren’t cool. I really try hard to be cool. Here, with all this flapping color and tinkling ringing bells, I’m seeming more like a fool than those cool cyclists.

Maybe it’s that I’m heading into Southern California, where weird isn’t as acceptable. Where the passing cyclists already aren’t very friendly. Now, they’ll look at me and roll their eyes. Maybe motorists will think I’m one of those crazy homeless guys, riding endlessly around on their bikes. With these thoughts, I reattach the bells I’ve started to remove. Double down on flying my colored flags. Damned the conventions, I’ll be a spectacle! After all, spectacle is the root of the word spectacular, is it not? And this tour, as all tours go, is most spectacular!

With that, I’m soon riding along Morro estuary, rejoining Route 1, flying with a tailwind towards SLO. Along past the California Men’s Colony, maximum security. I think of all the Sun’s incarcerated readers, one in particular who wrote “Your Despicable Correspondent”. I wonder what it would be like to stop there, go visit this inmate, maybe bring him a copy of Sy’s new book. Maybe next time.

One more climb, then the long descent into town. I roll down the narrow streets, straight in to Kreuzberg’s Coffeehouse. Flags flying, bells jingling. Spectacular spectacle that I am. I’m going to stay here a long time, get some writing done. I settle in with my coffee and a morning bun. Is this the newest pastry rage? I see them everywhere. Puff pastry rolled with cinnamon sugar. Ah, the cinnamon, an ode to Christmas. The Kreuz has been upgraded. Gone are the overstuffed chairs, replaced by narrow bars and short industrial style stools, no doubt from IKEA. Looks like Portlandia has arrived in SLO. Far too many laptops, everyone working, or are they just on social media, trying to make their stand?

I’m set to write. But nothing comes. I recall again Sy’s expression of resignation at his own gap in writing, over two years now I think. And what Francis said on the panel, when asked what the greatest obstacle to writing was, wondering if it was irrelevant, what if what she has to write no one will be interested in reading. That’s it, isn’t it? Why so many are struggling, why social media is able to grab our interest with an addictive vice grip, as we post image after image of forced smiling selfies and dogs and food and anything, but no words, no writing, no thinking, and no real feelings. Hashtags, shorthand, clickbait. Don’t we all feel irrelevant?

Just last year, in Sy’s closing talk, he challenged us all to write, from the heart, whatever is alive and authentic, stating “the truth of our experience is where the fire is.” This has been my struggle on tour in 2018, and in my life. To express what is true, what is alive. Because, I don’t think anyone will want to hear me. Even here, on this oft too revealing blog. (Those regular readers will note how many days behind I am on postings. Thank you for your patience.)

No matter. I’m getting caught up. I’m telling my experiences again, regardless of whether my boring or anxious ramblings are relevant, or will make me a spectacle. I’ll be spectacular in my mundanity. And thus, hours go by at the Kreuz, nothing written, too much time on Facebook. Wandering thoughts, wondering. I sit until I can’t stand it any longer, then head out, flags flying. It’s a long descent, all the way down the strip, then through a narrow valley, past oil wells and sagebrush dotted hills, until I reach Pismo Beach.

I continue on to Oceano, but don’t set up camp right away. I head west instead, down that long block to the beach, where I sit with an IPA and make a picnic lunch, watching all the cars and trucks and Westies driving out on the sand. This is one of the few beaches in California where people can drive right up to the surf. Why they want to do this escapes me. I chat with neighboring sunset worshippers, a man whose girlfriend works at that pirate bar in Bandon. Ha, what a small world.

The sun breaks though as it dips beneath the clouds, shining a brilliance onto the traffic filled beach. Nature’s fireworks in the sky. A calm seems to set in, cars and trucks driving very slowly to and from the beach. I wait until the colors fade, then head over to the RV park. I set up in the hiker biker, bitten by aggressive mosquitoes. I don’t remember these from previous tours. Then again, California is no longer in that long drought.

I’m fading off to sleep when the Amtrak rumbles through. Loud, but soothing, I think of the train ride that I’ll take at the end of the tour. I’m nowhere near to being ready to go home yet, still so much more spectacular riding ahead.

I wake well rested. My dreams have fed me. I’m ready for the challenging ride ahead. Eager to see the new highway repairs too. I’m packed and on the road long before the other cyclists have even risen.

It’s overcast, chilly as I head out along Route 1. I’m getting back into feeling my road legs again. Climbs come quickly, smaller than the ones at Salmon Creek. I pass the town of Gorda, another tourist trap with stratospheric prices. There are just a few miles to the slide that closed the route south for a year and a half.

I roll up the short hill, then see the new highway. Hard to fathom what a million tons of earth look like, until one sees this new highway. The long, steep slope, now covered with likely the same amount of rip rap. Far below, the 30 foot high sea wall. Construction vehicles continue to move earth and large rock. This will likely be a construction site for years to come.

I descend the new road quickly. A quarter mile downhill takes almost no time, compared to the 60 mile day I’m riding. I’m humbled to realize my favorite mode of travel requires such blacktopped highway, and so much engineering and capital investment.

I think of all the other cycling adventurers in less developed areas, particularly those posting on Instagram with the hashtag #bikewander. Gravel roads, mountain bikes set for touring, fording flooded rivers, skirting snow fields and glaciers. My touring in this perspective is kind of cushy. Maybe next summer I’ll venture further away from this route. Norway? Northern Europe?

For now, I continue south out of Big Sur. I surmount the twin climbs at Salmon Creek slowly, then descend to Ragged Point. Pause for coffee, then the last hills of Big Sur, descending to the plains before San Simeon. I pick up the strong tailwinds and fly over the miles, past the sea lion overlook, on past Cambria, San Simeon, Cayucos.

I’m at Morro Bay long before sunset. With all the tailwinds, I could have ridden further today. I’m ready to stop though, settle into camp at the state park. A large group of teens are also occupying the group site adjacent to the hiker biker site.

I set up my camp below the towering eucalyptus, hope the full moon won’t keep these teens up too late. I might need to use my earplugs. I head back into town for dinner, a spot right on the bay, just as the sun sets behind the massive Morro Rock. By the time I return to camp, it’s dark, and the kids seem to have settled down. Ah, I’ll rest well tonight.

I’m usually reluctant to head out again after the Sun workshop. This year, I feel more at peace, ready to ride on. A bit relieved, actually, that the weekend is over.

After a last soak and good bye to new friends, I push my loaded bike up the steep drive to Route 1. I stop several times to catch my breath. The weekend has renewed me, as well as taken a lot out of me. I lost my pride, for instance. And my begrudging. Humility is a good thing.

I begin pedaling up the hill just south of Esalen, stopping at the bridge to look back. Far below, I see the bathhouse I had so enjoyed all weekend. I wonder at next year, will I return, to a different workshop? Might be good to do something entirely different.

I continue, over rolling hills, wide vistas. I’m riding easy, legs feeling strong and relaxed. I stop at the little store in Lucia which sells the most overpriced Spam I’d ever seen. On then down the long descent before the avalanche shelter. I recall the road worker saying that the shelter and adjoining bridge cost $200 million. I wonder what the price of the new stretch at Mud Creek will be. I’m looking forward to riding that tomorrow.

Miles are passing easily, gentle climbs and descents. I pass Kirk Creek campground and the famed Nacimiento Road, which was the only access to Big Sur for over a year. I think of the fellow cyclist I met at the last camp, high up the hill, exploring the fire roads along the ridge. And I thought I was antisocial.

I wonder at my need for solitude, something I don’t give enough consideration. I think what Sy said, that maybe I’m working internally right now. Certainly. Perhaps this is why I’m more at peace with my departure from Esalen. I’m accepting my need to head off again, alone. With only myself and the road, and the ocean and vast skies, and the red tail hawks and California condors.

I reach Pacific Valley, finish the last few easy miles to Plaskett Creek campground just as the sun is setting. I roll into camp, glad to see several other cyclists already there. And there’s Kurt, with his recumbent. He calls out, you saw me cheating. Taking a bus when your knees hurt isn’t cheating, I tell him.

And how about avoiding talking to people when your heart is hurting. For I go about setting up camp, sharing few words beyond the normal greetings to my companions. So different from other tours, where I talked to everyone, effusively. And, for once, I’m understanding this reluctance, this inward focus, honoring this season of my heart.